Music

Thursday, January 15, 2015

By the time you read this, you and I and everyone else will
be focusing with laser-like intensity on the few, those lucky few, that have
managed to survive the first stages of the campaign for Oscar glory, at the
expense of all the rest of the films and filmmakers of 2014 that were worthy,
deserving, and often more deserving
of the sort of glory that will be showered on the nominees like a gold-flaked
fake tan. Which is not to say that some likely Oscar favorites—Boyhood, Birdman, Whiplash, The Grand
Budapest Hotel among them—don’t deserve the accolades. But there were a lot of other movies that will scarcely
be mentioned from this day forward that also warrant our attention. So while
Hollywood and the ravenous 24/7 press machine raise their glasses to those with
the best, most relentless press agents or with Harvey Weinstein as patron saint,
let me be so bold as to salute my own baker’s dozen favorites from the year
just passed (delivered by my favorite movie baker, Enzo Aguello, seen above), with a bonus morsel and a another full
basket of delights tossed in for good measure, before they all sail away,
forever disinvited from the annual post-Oscar Governor’s Ball. These were the movies
that made me the happiest to be hungry for the movies in 2014.

“By
the time this little dollop of a movie works its way through to its conclusion,
any possible objections to sameness in the usual Disney affirmation of family
values have been eroded by the sheer joy of the movie’s effortless invention
and discipline, and then washed away in a flood of tears.”

13) WHIPLASH
(Damien Chazelle)

A
movie that rumbles with the cacophonic fury of a Buddy Rich solo and a sly,
rhythmic certainty in the probing of ambiguous depths of character that is all
its own. Miles Teller’s student drummer and J.K. Simmons’ martinet music teacher
give no quarter in this clash of creative realization and outrageous emotional
manipulation. Hearts are hardened, souls are compromised and limits are pushed,
to say nothing of the knuckle meat sacrificed to the dark beat of
writer/director Chazelle’s unsettling emotional thriller. Above all, it has a
soundtrack that soars.

12) ALTMAN(Ron Mann)

In
remembering a filmmaker who lived life imperfectly, uproarious, generously, who
then channeled those impulses into an astonishing career in which the failures
were as fascinating as the many triumphs, Mann’s documentary reminds us not of
cinematic glories that will be with us till all the lights go out, but also of
what we’ve lost over the course of the 45 years of popular film culture since
Altman’s free-spirited style briefly reigned, asserted its influence and then
gave way to the sameness of the blockbuster era.

11) MILIUS(Joey Figueroa, Zak Knutson)

An
examination and a tribute worthy of the knotty, exhilarating, maddening,
supremely confident and impishly provocative auteur at its center which, in
addition to celebrating the expected bravado, surfs surprising waves of feeling
as well. Milius himself might scoff (while secretly appreciating it, of
course), but the empathy this documentary generates for his boisterous voice, at
its topmost volume and in its virtual silencing, is both remarkable and
revealing.

On
one level it’s hard not to take this ebulliently confident tour de force as a
direct response to the critics of Innaritu’s previous films, in particular
their jittery, self-serious style which sacrificed memorable imagery and visual
coherence at the altar of facile immediacy. But it’s also a blackly funny backstage
satire which skewers the insecurity and hubris of actors and show business
while simultaneously reveling in their glories. As it glides through the halls
and up the stairs of a theatrical space constructed to reflect the mental echo
chambers of a creative force skirting the edge of the final drop-off, Birdman proves taut and moving, a
relentless snare pattern resounding like madness, reverberating like the thrill
of performance, laughing and shuddering while the constructed inner and outer
worlds crumble.

9) VIRUNGA
(Orlando von Einsiedel)

A
documentary with all the urgency of great investigative journalism and the
razor-sharp instincts of a well-told thriller. Virunga showcases a devastating polarity of human nature in its
portrait of the venal and violently destructive battle for oil lands in the
Congo and the heroic attempts of a group of park rangers to facilitate the
conservation of the land and the survival of its native population of mountain
gorillas. It leaves you breathless with outrage, but also with hope generated
by the sacrifice of the rangers and the power of moral clarity.

8) THE
BABADOOK (Jennifer Kent)

This may not precisely be the most
terrifying movie ever made, as broadcast by director William Friedkin, but it’s
well scary enough to at least live up to the spirit of the hype, especially when considering this debut feature
by writer-director Kent, an ostensibly supernatural tale which eventually
drifts closer to a maternal riff on Repulsion,
has the confidence and stylistic purpose of a seasoned artist of psychological
horror. It’s anchored by Essie Davis’s spectacular turn as a mother whose
post-partum trauma has eroded her patience and even love for her own son, who
fries his mother’s last nerves in insisting the monster from a mysterious children’s
book is somehow real. Profoundly unsettling, and not particularly pleasant—I had to fight the urge to bolt for the exits on a couple of occasions.

7) ONLY
LOVERS LEFT ALIVE (Jim Jarmusch)

Most
hipsters act like they’ve seen it all, but Jarmusch’s ageless hipster vampires
really have. It’s the director’s brilliant conceit that they should be
consumers not only of blood but also of culture, great predator-participants in
the most sublime and earth-shaking of creative endeavors throughout history,
whose sense of romance, of deathless cool, is giving way to a seductive
alienation that may be too much even for the undead to oppose. Tilda Swinton
and Tom Hiddleston, the most sympathetic connoisseur-snob bloodsuckers
imaginable; their modern-day lair, a fabulously cluttered batcave of analog
rock-era detritus; and the philosophical swoon they take through the empty
streets of Detroit in search of spiritual and sensory sustenance-- they are all
similarly irresistible.

6) SELMA
(Ava DuVernay)

History
made palpable, accessible, by its unfortunate reflection of modern evidence
that the strides made in the Civil Rights Movement it so vividly depicts may
not have taken us as far as we once thought, but also by the striking empathy
commanded by the filmmaker for the real work required to channel and execute
effective resistance. Visually powerful without an excess of directorial
ostentation, DuVernay crystallizes the events leading to the march on
Montgomery to speak to the desperate now in painting a portrait, embodied by
David Oyelowo’s Martin Luther King, of a dynamic, recognizably flawed human
being whose perhaps most important achievement may have been in timely
reflection as well as thoughtful action. Selma
fairly vibrates with historical resonance and
immediacy.

5) MR.
TURNER (Mike Leigh)

Timothy
Spall’s gruntingly eloquent, nearly subverbal performance as the indisputably
great British painter J.M.W. Turner may be the year’s greatest, and it may also
be (New York Film Critics Circle excepted) the year’s most egregiously ignored.
Awards or no, Spall, in concert with Leigh and the masterful cinematographer
Dick Pope, paints a Cinemascope picture of an artist worthy of the aesthetic
and temperamental flux that characterized the end of his career. The filmmakers
don’t try to ape the realist’s lean toward impressionism of Turner’s late work,
nor does Spall labor to spell out thin explanations for his obsessions in
actorly language. Instead, these modern artists strive for and achieve a tactile
quality of everyday light and landscape to suggest how the British painter
perceives the world around him, while honoring with their own craft the mystery
of how those perceptions were transformed into Turner’s art. This is surely
among Mike Leigh’s best films.

4) THE
BATTERED BASTARDS OF BASEBALL (Chapman Way, Maclain Way)

“Most
of the guys had a little paunch,” says Rob Nelson, pitching coach of the
Portland Mavericks independent professional baseball club. “They led the league
in stubble.” So does this marvelous, energetic, irreverent documentary, a
perfect capsulizing of the Maverick’s raucous legacy of unprecedented success.
The Ways pay tribute to actor turned baseball impresario Bing Russell (father
of actor Kurt Russell, who briefly played for the team) and the enthusiastic, against-the-grain
spirit he instilled in his players, which the city of Portland responded to in
kind. In the process, they’ve made a movie that speaks to the true fan of the
game, to the real love of the game, one of the great movies about baseball.

3) MANAKAMANA(Stephanie Spray, Pancho Velez)

The
closest thing to being hypnotized, in a purely positive, enlivening sense, I’ve
ever experienced at the hands of a movie, one in which the shift of a gaze, or
a sigh, or an unexpected movement or sound, can feel like an earthquake. This
incredible film, composed of a series of simple 10-minute shots observing human faces as they survey a beautiful Nepalese mountainside forest from a
swaying cable car on its way to the temple of the movie's titular goddess, sucked
me into its unblinking gaze. Each trip with a new set of passengers offers an
opportunity to see and feel and think about the world differently, as well as
reflect on the power of the moving image to convey so much by so apparently
minor means. Beautiful and transcendent.

And an equivocation at the top of the list, because I
just can’t choose between the two movies of the year which most captivated me:

From my review, posted August 18, 2014:
“The film marks the passage of time in the faces of its actors, of course, but
also through the way it indicates, without a jarring jump-cut sensibility, how
Olivia (Patricia Arquette) extricates herself from the influence of her
abusive, alcoholic husbands (the second one entirely off-screen); how the
landscape of her countenance, changing in its way right along with her son’s,
illustrates her deepening concern and love; by the telling presence of
technology, of how Game Boy screens and televisions morph into computers and
smartphones and, of course, the unseen grid of social media; of the political
landscape of Texas after the turn of the century; and by the deft massaging of
all these elements into scenes that don’t seem edited as much as molded
together… Linklater lets the movie sprawl and find its own shape outside of
prescribed methods of editing, how he allows it to trickle through the timeline
and make room for the sorts of detail that would get sifted out of a more
strictly and traditionally dramatic approach. Nothing much beyond the course of
everyday experience happens in Boyhood—the movie has also been
criticized in some quarters for not being dramatic enough, for being a too generalized
portraiture of growing up.Yet the movie captures with alarming
sensitivity the way youth, and the way people move through youth toward
maturity, makes each decision seem momentous, important, far-reaching, when
precisely the opposite may be true. Is Boyhood the greatest movie ever made, an enduring masterpiece? Who knows? Its sublime poetry, its generosity, its empathy, its curiosity, its window onto the true fleetingness and intangibility of time, these are the qualities that actually mean something. Boyhood is extraordinary right now. When we're older and grayer and ostensibly wiser, there will still be plenty of time to discuss matters of greatness."

1) UNDER THE SKIN (Jonathan Glazer )

Its title evokes ripples of unnerving intimacy, frissons of fear, and a construction of alien intelligence, perspective and detachment hidden in the guise of seductive earthly beauty, personified by Scarlett Johansson's spectrally gorgeous, eerily vacant countenance. Jonathan Glazer's science fiction dreamscape is perhaps the most powerful visual movie experience of the new century so far, its vision and command of technique stretching from absolute modernity to the dawning age of cinematic imagery. It begins with an act of interstellar birth, preverbal linguistic formations coursing almost subliminally on the soundtrack, and ends elementally, in fire and under the calming descent of snow, its gaze pointedly pleadingly back in the direction from whence it started. Between these points Under the Skin fashions an alluring near-perfect expression of the elusive, mysterious task of defining humanity, as well as chilling glimpses into the secret methodology of observation and harvesting of that humanity which leads to destruction and, perhaps, transcendence. Nearly a decade after his magnificent and haunting feature Birth (2004), Glazer here intertwines a singularly menacing and surreal atmosphere with an even stranger, more pure realism, and the feature that results places him on a short list among the most startling and original filmmakers working today.

THE APPRENTICE
BAKER’S DOZEN (in descending order)

14) THE
GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL (Wes Anderson)

15) LOCKE
(Steven Knight)

16) GODZILLA (Gareth Edwards)

17) A
WALK AMONG THE TOMBSTONES (Scott Frank)

18) JIMI:
ALL IS BY MY SIDE (John Ridley)

19) THE
HOMESMAN (Tommy Lee Jones)

20) LUCY (Luc Besson)

21) GOD’S
POCKET (John Slattery)

22) THE
UNKNOWN KNOWN (Errol Morris)

23) CAPTAIN
AMERICA: THE WINTER SOLDIER (Anthony Russo, Joe Russo)

24) STRANGER
BY THE LAKE(Alain Guiraudie)

25) THE
INTERVIEW (Seth Rogen, Evan Goldberg)

26) BAD
WORDS (Jason Bateman)

STILL NEED TO
SEE:American Sniper, Beyond the Lights, Beyond Outrage, Big Bad Wolves, The
Boxtrolls, CitizenFour, Citizen Koch, The Dance of Reality, Dear White People, Fading
Gigolo, The Fault In Our Stars, A Field in England, Finding Vivian Maier, For
No Good Reason, Force Majeure, Foxcatcher, Fury, Get On Up, A Girl Walks Home
Alone at Night, Goodbye to Language, The Green Inferno, How to Train Your Dragon 2, The Imitation
Game, The Internet’s Own Boy: The Story of Aaron Swartz, Into the Woods, Joe,
Journey to the West, The Last Days of Vietnam, Life Itself, The Monuments Men, Night Moves, Nymphomaniac
Vol. 2, Obvious Child, Palo Alto, Particle Fever, The Penguins of Madagascar,
The Raid 2, Rigor Mortis, Rosewater, The Sacrament, The Story of Princess
Kaguya, Supermensch: The Legend of Shep Gordon, Third Person, Three Days to
Kill, 22 Jump Street, Whitey: United States of America v. James Bulger, Wild,
The Wind Rises, Witching and Bitching.

ACADEMY OF THE
UNDERRATED

At the Devil’s Door,
God’s Pocket, The Interview, Land Ho!, Lucy, Magic in the
Moonlight, Ouija, Veronica Mars, Venus in Fur, A Walk Among the Tombstones

Monday, January 12, 2015

“You mean to tell me my uncle actually charged people to go
in there? And people actually paid?” –Matt Spenser (Bill Travers) upon first seeing the condition
of the Bijou Kinema, in The Smallest Show
on Earth

In Basil Dearden’s charming and wistful 1957 British comedy The Smallest Show on Earth (also known
under the far-less evocative title Big
Time Operators), a young couple, played by Virginia McKenna and Bill
Travers, inherit a small–town cinema, the Bijou Kinema-- known to the citizenry
of Sloughborough as the Flea Pit-- and decide, in order to drive up the selling
price to the local cinema magnate, who wants to tear it down and build a
carpark, that against all odds and common sense they’ll reopen the doors and
give the business a go. They also inherit three elderly employees who have long
been part of the Bijou’s checkered history—Mrs. Fazackalee (Margaret
Rutherford), the cashier who was once also the cinema organist during the
silent era; Mr. Quill (Peter Sellers), the projectionist with a more-than-slight
penchant for Dewar’s White Label; and Old Tom (Bernard Miles), the janitor who
only wants a uniform commensurate with his position and who dutifully provides
a fiery solution when negotiations with the magnate hit a snag. These three
comprise what passes for the barely beating heart of the Bijou, and if
Dearden’s movie seems to end just as the third act is set to begin, it remains
a sweet-tempered testament to the blinkered spirits of the Bijou staff, as well
as to the fleeting pleasures of nostalgia and the long-lost palaces where past
generations learned to love the movies.

Some of the richest comic highlights of The Smallest Show on Earth come from all the technical foul-ups
that come courtesy of the theater’s antiquated equipment—busted reels, focus
failures, upside-down images and, of course, the image of sizzling celluloid
from a frame on fire, these are as good as a cartoon and a newsreel, the
expected bonuses when you buy a ticket at the Bijou. And audiences in 2015 who
stumble upon this little beauty on DVD (or on Amazon Streaming
Video, where it is currently available) will likely get huge laughs from the movie’s sly comment on the panicked
movie industry’s attempt to stave off the deleterious effects of television
through unabashed gimmickry.

Unable to afford upgrades to Cinemascope and stereophonic
sound, the staff at the Bijou make do (albeit inadvertently) with the hardships
imposed on them by the march of progress.One of the factors of modernity contributing to the theater’s fall into
disrepair is a railway which zooms directly past the outside of the auditorium,
making the building shake from its faulty foundation to its rickety rafters. However,
fortune smiles upon the Spensers as audiences react with wild abandon when the
roar of the train outside is accidentally synched to a scene of a train robbery
in the western on screen. The rumbling is so awful that poor Mr. Quill,
recently having “taken the pledge,” is driven back to drink after throwing
himself bodily on the projector to keep it from vibrating off its floor mounts.
But the audience sees it as an “enhanced” experience, something they certainly
couldn’t get from sitting at home in front of the tube.

Viewers taking in The
Smallest Show on Earth 60 years later will think of everything from
Sensurround to D-Box, technological gimmicks that, effective as they might be,
still probably wouldn’t be as much fun as a well-timed passing locomotive
threatening to literally bring the house down. The movie gently satirizes the
raucous behavior of working-class audiences in the age of television while
serving as a bridge between the rapidly changing landscape of modern
entertainment and its own unapologetically nostalgic yearning for days past,
when tastes were simpler and ornate palaces built to showcase flickering images
of grandeur and adventure were commonplace. Whatever else you might say about
them, the rowdy, television-spoiled audiences that (eventually) pack the Bijou
are at least having fun, unlike their “sophisticated” modern-day counterparts,
whose countenances, lit by cell phone screens, betray the desultory sense that,
despite the fact that they’ve paid upwards of $13 to get in, they’d rather be
anywhere else than in a theater watching a movie.

Of course, that appeal to nostalgia for days past rings slightly
differently in 2015 than it did for the characters in Dearden’s film, who have
seen change in the film industry, from silent to sound to color to wide-screen,
but who mourn most especially for the days when the theater could be packed for
every show, when the movies really were the best and only show in town.
Audiences exposed to the movie today might first marvel that there were ever
such huge, expansive, ornately designed, single-screen temples whose only
purpose was to show movies. Modern multiplexes with 25 screens and a bounty of
tentpole blockbusters to exhibit still find themselves appealing to Internet
technology to stimulate ticket sales, booking live, high-definition video feeds
of operas and other “special events,” and even appealing to organizations like
churches to rent auditoriums, all in order to stay afloat in an age when
entertainment choices are even more fragmented. Single-screen palaces for
everyday exhibition really are, with a few exceptions like the historic Vista in East Hollywood, things of the past.

For me, seeing The
Smallest Show on Earth for the first time in 2014 provided its own sort of
coincidence, like a train with the word “progress” spray-painted on its engine
in ironic quotation marks rumbling past, but without the pleasant afterglow of
an enhanced experience. As I watched the efforts of the Spensers and their
staff to raise the Bijou Kinema from the ashes, I couldn’t help but reflect on
a couple of beloved movie palaces in my own life that are not now what they
once were. In September it was announced that the New Beverly Cinema was being
taken over by Oscar-winning filmmaker Quentin Tarantino and that Michael
Torgan was out. (Torgan took over daily operation of the theater when his father Sherman,
who opened the theater as a repertory cinema in 1978, died unexpectedly in
2007.) Not much more is known now about the specifics of what
transpired than when the coup was announced in Late August, other than it seems to have been precipitated by Torgan’s purchase of a digital
projector, to which his notoriously 35mm-or-nothing landlord took extreme
exception. In solidarity with Michael, and out of indifference to the heavily
Grindhouse-tilted tenor of the programming since the theater reopened in
October, I have yet to return to the New Beverly, and I really miss it. Recent
reports have it that Torgan has indeed returned in some capacity—a friend saw
him in the box office recently, and also changing the marquee on an early
Saturday morning—so I suspect that sometime soon I will be back. Though it’s
hard to imagine that the vibe won’t somehow be changed, different, at least the
New Beverly is still showing films, one of several tantalizing daily options
Los Angeles moviegoers have on the revival cinema scene.

More pointedly, however, 2014 was the year that the movie palace
of my own childhood finally closed its doors for what looks like the last time.
I saw my very first movie in a theater at the tender age of three. It was Gay Purr-ee (1963), the Abe
Levitow-directed animated feature (co-written by Chuck Jones) about cats in the
French countryside making their way to the big city, and I saw it at the Marius
Theater in beautiful downtown Lakeview, Oregon. The Marius, built in the early
1930s, wasn’t the first movie theater in town—there was a tiny silent
theater operating in the early 1900s that introduced the industrial age wonder
of the movies to the Irish immigrants and cowpokes who first populated my hometown.
(Writer Bob Barry commemorated the theater, whose name I can’t recall—the Rex,
maybe?—in his book of local history From Shamrocks to Sagebrush.) But the Marius was my first. I
don’t remember a thing about it, and without the help of some photographs I
doubt I’d even be able to recall what the exterior looked like—it was closed
and remodeled into an office building during the years in the mid-60's when my
family briefly moved to California. By the time we returned in 1968, the Marius
was gone. (The remnants of the theater stage are still discernible in the
basement of that remodeled building, known since the theater’s closing as the
Marius Building. Otherwise, you'd never know a movie theater once stood there.)

By the time I returned to Lakeview in 1968, I’d been
infected by the movie virus in a serious way. My parents took us to movies at
the big theaters near the outskirts of Sacramento—the Tower and the Roseville
in downtown Roseville, and the Citrus Heights Drive-in in the bedroom community
of Citrus Heights, where we lived—and when we moved back to the rural splendor
of Lakeview, I took as full advantage as I could of the opportunity to go to
the movies by myself or with friends—something we weren’t allowed to do in the
big city. And the Alger Theater, at the edge of downtown Lakeview, just a mile
from my house, became my refuge, my oasis, my home away from home. Those were
the days of double features, Saturday matinees (with reduced prices!), of
driving into town and thrilling to see the lights of the marquee turned on
before sundown, beckoning, promising a peek into a world well beyond the limits
of what could be offered by my little burg. I dreamt of that place often, the
yellow bulb lights dotting the undercarriage of the marquee, glowing and
playing off the pale green trim of the theater frontage—it was glamorous, the
only glamour my town had to offer, and it was irresistible.

My dad’s side of the family, the Italians, were dutiful
Catholics, and as such were well acquainted with Bob and Norene Alger, visible participants in local Catholic culture who
owned and operated the Alger Theater and the Circle JM Drive-in Theater on the
north end of town—they had owned the Marius as well. Being the son (and grandson) of
family friends, Mr. and Mrs. Alger always made me feel welcome. I can remember
filing out of many matinees and evening shows and being greeted by Mrs. Alger
with a hug, which many of my friends and peers thought was strange because she
was rarely any more than standoffish—and sometimes downright cranky—to most of
them. She also came down into the auditorium to personally check on me the
night I first saw Blazing Saddles,
apparently fearing from my relentless laughter that I was in danger of respiratory
failure or full-on hysteria. And the very first review I ever wrote, at the
tender age of 12, came at the behest of Mr. Alger, who offered me free
admittance to the Saturday night showing of Young
Winston (1972) if I would provide him a written review of it after mass
the following morning. I have no idea why he wanted me to write about it, but I
did. When I handed over my little essay, he accepted it with that slightly
inscrutable half-smile, which could be easily misinterpreted (or correctly interpreted,
I suppose) as a frown and which rarely left his face. I never heard another
word about the review, and he never asked me to do it again.

Though they were overseers of one of the two primary
communal entertainment options available to Lakeview back in the day, Bob and Norene felt
no need to worry about competing with television. Which was a good thing,
because the Algers were anything but show people. They ran the theater with an
increasing sense of begrudging duty, and not without a sense— definitely noticed
by the general populace— that they were too socially sophisticated for the
audience they served. And they didn’t go in for gimmicks or promotions either. The only bonuses
offered by the theater came on Christmas Eve (an annual canned food drive
matinee which didn’t survive the early ‘70's-- see Dear Brigitte on the calendar to the left); Independence Day (a bare-bones
fireworks show for which several pals, including the Algers' son David and I, comprised the mortar crew when I was
a teenager); and, best of all, one-night horror shows for New Year’s Eve,
Halloween and whenever a Friday the 13th would roll around. The
Alger booked a terrific array of Hammer, Amicus and American-International
titles for my formative years, allowing me to see films like Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed, Dracula Has
Risen from the Grave, Rasputin the Mad Monk, The Fearless Vampire Killers, The
Green Slime, Tales from the Crypt, Asylum, The House That Dripped Blood, Count
Yorga, Vampire and countless others that stand as favorites to this day,
all projected to a crowd of very enthusiastic screamers.

Audiences at the Alger weren’t far removed from the hijinks
of those rowdy delinquents inside the Spensers’ Bijou either. One of the apocryphal Bob Alger stories for
me and my buddies came as a result of a Halloween night screening of Tales from the Crypt during which the
audience, comprised mostly of high school kids like myself who, unlike myself,
were there to do anything but watch the movie, got well out of control. The din started before the
opening curtain and continued to increase. And when some sort of projectile
flew out of the crowd and landed very close to the screen, it wasn’t long
before Mr. Alger marched slowly, deliberately, to the front of the theater, the
lights came up, the movie stopped and everyone went silent. “What I have before
me, on the floor of the auditorium,” he intoned ominously, as fearsome as Sir Ralph Richardson's cryptkeeper, “is a fresh egg.” He
berated the audience for their behavior and threatened to shut the screening
down entirely, with no refunds, if decorum wasn’t restored immediately. He even
yelled out at one poor bastard who was still cutting up during his speech—“You!
In the balcony! I know it was you who threw it!” Even though I wasn’t causing
trouble myself, I was terrified (I could only laugh about it later), but I was
also secretly glad because, goddamn it, I couldn’t hear the movie, and the last
thing I would have wanted was for the Algers to pull the plug on these horror
holiday special shows, which I considered a major perk and a significant
antidote to the doldrums of Lakeview citizenship.

I went to see everything I could at the Alger. I wanted to see everything I could. But for the general audiences, who during the early 70s came out to see just about anything the theater showed—I remember a half full house for Buffalo Bill and the Indians, for crying out loud, a phenomenon probably attributable to the cowboy community assuming they were in for a run-of-the-mill western—I don’t think the movies themselves mattered nearly as much as the chance to get out and do something, anything. And when that movie was done, it was done—there was no going out and talking about it afterward, because movies were rarely seen as anything more than simple diversion. And sometimes the movie was done before it was done. One of the funniest moments in The Smallest Show on Earth comes as a B-western is beginning to wrap up. It’s the last scene in the movie, and the audience, sensing that the meat of the action has finished, jumps up and bolts for the exits before “The End” even has a chance to pop up and cue them that it’s time to leave. The audiences at the Alger were similarly inclined to get on with life rather than savor the cinematic experience they’d just had. I’ll never forget coming home from college and seeing Star Wars with the hometown crowd. As soon as the Death Star exploded, at least 40 people in the packed house grabbed their coats and scooted out of the theater.

For all its deficiencies—the inept projection, the frequently misspelled marquee (it was always “Pual” Newman in something or other, and I’ll never forget “Ward Bond 007” in The Man with the Golden Gun), the uncomfortable seats, the indifferent management—the Alger was where I really fell in love with the movies. That love would be deepened elsewhere, but the Alger's lights always seemed to be visible to me from the dark quiet of Southern Oregon nights long after I’d left the town, a glowing reminder of where it all began.

The Algers closed the drive-in in 1981 after a winter storm ripped the screen in half like a piece of paper. They kept the indoor theater open for a couple years after that, but soon retired, and it sat dark for a few months during the early ‘80s, when local folks were finally getting into the swing of the VCR era. It eventually reopened under new ownership in the mid-80s, and competition to keep pace with an ever-shrinking window between theatrical release and home video debut forced the theater to begin picking up releases much more quickly than it ever did under the guidance of Bob Alger. In those days, it wasn’t unusual to have to wait 6-9 months after its national release for a movie to bow at the Alger—Jaws played at the Circle JM Drive-in during the summer… of 1976. But the video-age Alger was facing a much changed exhibition landscape. I remember being completely shocked to open up the pages of the local weekly newspaper, the Lake County Examiner, 15 years ago and seeing a tiny ad for the week’s offering at the Alger, Scream 3, which was opening at the Alger the very same night it opened on 3,000 or so other screens across the nation, an unthinkable scenario even five years before then.

(These photos of the Alger Theater date from about one to two years after its opening. Above, Gene Autry in Sierra Sue and All-American Coed were both released in 1941, and despite the "1938" notation on the lower photo, given the release date of Alfred Hitchcock's Saboteur, the feature advertised on the marquee, the date of this photo is likely sometime after 1942.)

The theater, under new management now twice removed from Bob and Norene Alger, more or less limped into the digital age. Shows were now weekends only, and the theater, which opened in 1940 (see photos above), was beginning to show the effects of a lack of cosmetic upkeep. A ghastly stage had been installed in the mid ‘80s, ostensibly in a move to establish a community theater which never took hold, the stage obliterating the first four or five rows of original seats. What seats remained were the original 1940 editions and as butt-numbing as ever; the marquee lights were spotty, every other bulb either burnt out or screwed into a socket that had long since failed to carry current; the façade of the theater was tattered and badly in need of a paint job; and the marquee itself was warped, rickety and weather-beaten, its ability to hold up plastic letters routinely challenged by a stiff breeze. With the cost of keeping the theater open for just three days a week becoming increasingly indomitable, it seemed the writing was on the wall, and it probably had been for at least the first 10 years of the 21st century.

Much like how the storm that destroyed the drive-in screen in 1981 had presented the Algers a convenient exeunt from the drive-in business, big studio threats to stop providing 35mm prints to theaters, thus forcing small-town operations like the Alger to upgrade to digital equipment in order to stay in business, were the rationale current management needed to call theatrical exhibition in Lakeview, Oregon a permanent day. After several attempts to communicate with the current owners and brainstorm ideas for keeping the theater alive—a theater in nearby Alturas, California, had successfully navigated a crowd-funding campaign to upgrade their theater and make it a community-operated business—I stopped receiving replies to my e-mails, and it became clear that, in response to deteriorating attendance, the owners weren’t really interested in rallying an effort to come up with the money to keep the doors open.

So, in March 2014 the reels of the Alger Theater’s 35mm platter projection system spun their last. The theater, much like Hollywood itself, had long since ceded any attempt to appeal to any other audience beyond the PG/PG-13 market, the only folks left in town who could be counted on to occasionally show up for a movie. It’s grimly appropriate that the last picture show would not be a landmark like Red River (the Alger management likely being unaware of that movie, or The Last Picture Show, for that matter), or even an adult-oriented audience-pleaser like the recent Oscar-winner Argo. Instead, it was the generic animated movie The Nut Job, and a sadder, more ignominious finale I couldn’t possibly imagine. According to a report filed by my niece, who was very upset about the theater closing and tried herself to generate some local interest in preserving it, the last show was just as nondescript and lacking in fanfare as one might expect. The end credits playing before an empty auditorium, what there was of the audience having already listlessly filed out, the marquee lights went dark over South F Street, the main drag on which the Alger held dominance for 74 years, and they haven’t been back on since. It’s not clear as yet whether the township of Lakeview has even noticed.

About two months ago I got a message from a friend still living in Oregon who said she’d heard that the Alger was about to be purchased by a new owner, given a digital upgrade and a paint job, and reopened. Did I dream this? If it were true, it would be an unlikely deus ex machina, given the history of this theater, and given the economic straits in which the town finds itself in 2015. It’s the sort of dream of the past and its familiar faces that I wake up from all the time. But no, I didn’t dream it. The message was real. And whether or not the resurrection of the Alger makes the transition from rumor to reality—and the town’s active interest in making it happen cannot be overemphasized-- will be a story I plan to follow closely over the coming year.

Maybe it doesn’t mean the same thing to the current citizenry of Lakeview that it does to me. Maybe it never did. However they may have felt, it’s difficult for me to discount the importance such a tiny blip on American culture as the Alger had on the forming of my mind and my desire to see more than what could be offered on the dusty, muddy streets passing outside its doors. If they’re lucky, everyone reading this will have a place like it nestled in their memories, a place where love for what the movies could show us, could inspire in us, the emotions they could stir, was instilled and made foundation for the appreciation of what movies could be that we had yet to understand. When I see the empty shell of that theater, standing abandoned and ignored at the edge of my hometown, I don’t feel like a piece of me is lost. No, I know right where that piece is at. It’s still inside those doors, in communion with the dusty old red curtain, the forever dimmed house lights running the edges of the auditorium at the ceiling level, the mysterious projection room, from whence all those amazing sights and sounds emerged, the tidy confines of the snack bar, watched over by the old Thornton’s Drug clock on the wall, its timekeeping partner, the one bearing the Lincecum Signs ad, still perched in the auditorium above the door to the back of the screen, stage left. Yep, I’m still in there, sitting in those worn-down seats, waiting for the next movie to start. By a great stroke of fortune, maybe someday it will.

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A GALLERY OF SHOTS FROM MY FINAL VISIT TO THE ALGER, SUMMER 2013, AND DURING THE DAYS AFTER ITS CLOSING

(Thanks to Kamaryn Schneider for some of these images, above and below.)